Maternal Instincts
by KitCat Italica
Summary: Martha Wayne's spirit watches over Bruce each night of his crusade, even when she wishes she could turn away. B/J slash


Maternal Instincts

She walks the streets, unnoticed. None of her kind ever is. Not people like her. She comes from a world far beyond Gotham, yet so interconnected that it could be called the city's twin. Its daughter. Its mother. Its result and its cause.

Such is she. She came to this point in time, this shadowed existence, because of what the city decayed to. Yet after her fall, the decay only worsened, and quickened its rate of decline to the point of utter lawlessness. And all because of one fateful night. One night that changed the course of an individual's life forever, and changed the city's fate from that point forward. Touched so many lives in unforeseen ways, unbeknownst to them at the time. If it hadn't happened, people wouldn't be living in fear right now. Others wouldn't have died from the aftereffects. Still others wouldn't be reveling in the night air, wondering what sort of trouble they should stir up next.

And her son wouldn't be plotting how to stop them.

She wanders the alleyway, that one particular alleyway that she now knows like the back of her own insubstantial hand. The place she met the end. The place where time ceased to matter, where her body gave way to the ravages of nature and her soul left it behind, unable to continue on in a mortal form. Whenever she chooses to visit the mortal realms again, she always starts out here. There's the old dumpster to the right of the doorway. There's the extinct, partially smashed exit sign above the door into the abandoned opera house. There's the flickering streetlamp that slows its buzzing every fourth blink of its bleak yellow bulb. All so familiar, speaking of a time so long forgotten. Forgotten by all, but two.

One of whom has certainly never forgiven, either.

She had asked Thomas if he had wanted to come along tonight, but he simply shook his head and turned away. She understands; he's seen enough. Enough of the decadence that he worked so hard to eradicate, only to rejuvenate tenfold in the wake of their murders. Things seem to be improving, she insists, but such thoughts are voiced more to convince herself than her husband. He seems to be looking at the living world with a more disparaging eye of late.

But she can't. She refuses to see what's become of the city. Refuses to accept the fact that it may just be beyond saving. Gotham isn't lost. Can't Thomas see that, after what their son has done? Instead of frittering away his inheritance on trivial pleasures of life, he chooses to use his fortune and resources on fighting the evil that has Gotham on its knees. He buoys the masses up with hope when all seems lost. He prevents atrocities on the streets at night and keeps crime rates from escalating. But more than that, he serves as a symbol of Gotham's defiance against fate. She supposes it always was written in the stars for Gotham to be a doomed city, but it will never die when the Batman – her son – watches over it night after night.

It makes her heart swell with pride whenever she sees him in his armor, serving his hometown faithfully. When she first witnessed his violent acts of vigilantism, she was horrified to say the least. The unbelievable shock eventually abated, however, when she realized just what he was doing, and _why_ he was doing it. He was taking his vengeance and expanding it to the ideal of justice and harmony that she had taught him of when she was alive. She and Thomas' deaths just gave him the key to act upon his teachings.

Thomas seems more somber these days though, and she has become a bit more downcast as well. Things have definitely gotten worse in their city. The inevitable price of their son's vision has been set on the city's head as more and more outlandish and horrifying criminals threaten the ideals that Batman stands for. More and more costumed men and women spring up every night, all with their own particular plan to topple the Bat and send the city spiraling to meet their demands. Yet she has seen Bruce fight them with all his spirit, and she couldn't be more proud of his determination and courage.

She hasn't cried though; ghosts can't cry, for that is a mortal display of emotion. The soul doesn't bleed, or cry, or sweat; the soul breathes, and whispers, and sings. Such emotions sometimes seep into the living around the dead, however, and she is careful to keep her distance when she watches him fight, or dress his wounds. She doesn't want her grief at his sacrifices to overlap into his emotions as well. She knows he has enough to deal with; no sense to burden him with her motherly worries to add to his troubles. Sometimes, though, she's a bit careless – she just can't keep away from her little boy for long. It is sometimes at these moments that he becomes overwhelmed with pain and guilt, or straightens with pride as he cleans off his armor before dawn. Positive emotions she wishes to impart to him, though she wants to do so much more – to fling her arms around him, and whisper her love to him, just to let him know that she and daddy are always with him.

But she can't. For they exist on separate planes. Nothing she physically does will ever impact him, and vice versa. There is no contact between the living and the dead.

Tonight is cold. She sees it in the way nameless strangers' breath appears as a stream of vapor issuing from their nostrils. She hears it in the way they shiver and shudder, pulling their patched up coats tighter around their bodies, quickly heading home with their heads down for fear of meeting the wrong person's eyes. No one that passes is the one she seeks. She wishes them all well and a safe journey home, then turns to another dark back road. No amount of scum found in any of these alleys could repulse her now; she has spent the last five years chasing Bruce through the worst parts of the city, as he surrounds himself with the dregs of humanity. But he still presses on unhindered, and so does she.

She walks down roads and past buildings, led on by the magnetic tug of his soul. She can always feel his presence, especially at night. For at night, his soul comes alive. Tonight, it feels especially strong; she can almost _see_ it shining like a welcoming beacon in the distance. It is this light, this living force, which leads her on, weaving her through the maze of Gotham to her only descendant.

It leads her to the Narrows, to a rotting cheap motel, closed down after too many burglaries and rapes sprang up in the building. The mob used to use it for meetings and drug deals, but soon vacated after the police busted them thanks to a tipoff from Batman. Now only the rats live here. Rats, mold, and…

…she stops in the doorway as she finds that apparently a clown takes up residence here too. _That _clown: the man who calls himself the Joker. She has seen how he terrorizes the city, how he twists a knife into Batman's virtues and torments Bruce's soul even out of his armor. She has listened to her baby scream at night in frustration over his enemy, a sound she wishes she could erase from her immortal ears. She has seen them fight each other too many times, as well, always in a stalemate, never winning completely. Perhaps last night's scuffle with the Joker was what got Thomas in such a low mood, she thinks. It's certainly quite disheartening to see your son unable to defeat his demons while you can only stand by and watch, bound away from him by death.

But tonight, she soon realizes, isn't a repeat of last night's brawl. The violence and passion of the usual fights still lingers around the living soul in the room, but…wait. Not just one living soul. _Two_ souls. There are two people here, she realizes, wondering why she hadn't noticed before. It's not because they are standing so close to each other, for physical distance does not apply to the same degree on the spiritual level. The two entities just seemed so close, so similar, so _united_, that they seemed to mesh together and create one living organism, singing its song to the world.

She then becomes painfully aware of who the two souls belong to. One is the Joker, so completely vile and heinous in his spiritual appearance that there seems to be no soul left to speak of; at least, none left that makes sense. His light is a writhing swarm of snakes and insects, humming in a cacophony of madness that only makes sense to him. The light burns and sears her eyes, yet she can never expect when to look back again, for it is all random. Completely arbitrary in its impulses and expulsions, lulling and striking without warning or reason. The soul of a monster, not a mortal man. Just…a force.

The other is so completely in sync with the Joker's that she at first didn't even notice it was there. It resonates with strength and resolve, calm purpose with a hidden ferocity that drives it forward. The most feral of souls, embodied in the most human of patterns that she wonders no one else's soul looks just this way. It seems so…familiar. So elemental in its emotions and purposes, tempered with the highest of virtues that make it shine so brightly with its warm glow. The two separate lights – one strikingly inhuman, the other painfully human – seem to fuse into a perfect aura of beauty that she feels the need to look away, after being fortunate enough to gaze upon such a union of perfection.

When she looks back, she feels as if the cold of the night has permeated her being and has stolen all warmth away from the world. She no longer sees the light, the untainted glory of the meeting of equal souls. All she can see is a maskless Bruce and a paintless Joker, wrapped in each other's arms with their lips sealed together in passion. Her son in the arms of his enemy. Her baby Brucey kissing the most despicable creature she has ever seen. Thomas's boy being held in the clutches of a monster.

As she watches the two men continue their deep display of affection, she realizes Thomas was wise not to come. It's times like this that she wishes most she were alive. So she could do something, wrench them apart, make the Joker poof into nonexistence, just make this nightmare _end_…

But mostly, so she could cry.

* * *

**I've always wondered his mom's take on his attraction to Joker, seeing as moms don't always take it well to learn that their son is spiritually destined for a man rather than a woman. Here is thusly the product of procrastination on an English project. Hope you liked it. :)**


End file.
